


nothing, null, void

by hexburn (thestormapproaches)



Category: League of Legends RPF
Genre: Comfort, Cuddling & Snuggling, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hurt, Hurt/Comfort, Literal Sleeping Together, Loss, M/M, Platonic Cuddling, failure - Freeform, feeling empty, loss of appetite, selective mutism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-21
Updated: 2020-07-21
Packaged: 2021-03-04 23:08:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,402
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25414447
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thestormapproaches/pseuds/hexburn
Summary: Most people feel something when they lose. It's human. It's only human to get upset when prizes are snatched from one's grasp.But as much as Tim wants to feel human, he feels nothing.
Relationships: Could be interpreted either way - Relationship, Oskar "Selfmade" Boderek & Tim "Nemesis" Lipovšek, Oskar "Selfmade" Boderek/Tim "Nemesis" Lipovšek
Comments: 6
Kudos: 46





	nothing, null, void

**Author's Note:**

> set during the one-week break after the end of the first round robin in the 2020 summer split.  
> aka after all the losses T-T

Emptiness.

Tim knows most players would feel something right now, whether it’s the pain of losing or fury at his teammates, but he doesn’t seem to feel anything. He just feels... off. Not off like something is wrong, but like he’s a machine and someone turned his emotions off.

There’s nothing.

Emptiness.

Loss after loss, the only reprieve is breaks from the game itself, and Tim almost never allows himself to take those, not when he has a reputation to prove for himself and his jungler and his team. Only Oskar can really get him to stop.

“It’s time to go home, Tim,” someone says, but it’s not Oskar, so they don’t understand that Tim needs to keep working. It’s not that late. Oskar hasn’t put the seal of disapproval on Tim’s sleep-deprivation just yet. Tim can play another two games, at least. A hand on his shoulder interrupts that. “It’s time to go home, Tim,” says the voice more firmly. It has a Spanish accent, but it isn’t Araneae. They don’t know him. They don’t know what’s good for him. “It’s time to-” begins the voice once more, only to be cut off.

“I’ll take care of him,” Oskar promises. “I’m staying late tonight, anyway. I can handle him.”

There’s a gruff grumble, but it must be a nod, because the voice stops bothering Tim. He keeps staring at the screen until his queue pops.

Later in the night, Oskar sets a glass of water on Tim’s desk. “Drink,” Oskar says, with strength but also kindness and a gentle touch to his forehead. “You’re not sick,” Oskar observes, testing his temperature with the back of his hand. “That’s good.”

Tim drinks his water without a word.

“You didn’t eat dinner, so I ordered Subway. It’ll be here in fifteen minutes. Come play customs with me so you won’t be stuck in a game when food comes,” Oskar says. He ruffles Tim’s hair, then sits down at his own keyboard and creates a custom game, inviting Tim into it.

Accepting the invitation, Tim changes his queue and just practices some CS-ing while Oskar does his jungle clears. At one point, Oskar even roams over to Tim and makes Graves start telling jokes and dancing. Tim answers in kind. He smiles the first smile he’s had in a while at their two little characters on the screen, and Oskar’s happy chuckle lets him know he’s been seen. When food comes, Oskar fetches it and sets it down on top of his keyboard, where it’s impossible for Tim to ignore. He pauses his game, takes off his headphones, and starts to eat. It doesn’t taste like much of anything.

“Good?”

Tim nods and takes another bite, chewing quickly in his rush to finish and resume playing. As he eats, Oskar kindly puts him into queue again, this time duoing with him. Meekly, after a few minutes Tim holds the sandwich out to Oskar, asking if he wants a piece, just not with words right now and still not quite making eye contact. Oskar will understand, anyway.

“No, I had dinner,” Oskar answers, gently pushing Tim’s hand back to him. “You eat it. You didn’t have much for lunch, anyway.”

Wordlessly, Tim continues to eat. When his queue pops, he doesn’t even have to stop; Oskar clicks him through queue and picks a champion for him that’s just what he would have chosen, and with Oskar’s help setting up his runes and summoner spells he manages to finish his sandwich before he loads into the game. They go through one, two, three games with Tim’s silence and Oskar’s quiet shotcalling, though most of what he does and says just follows what Tim would normally say.

“I’m done for the night,” Oskar murmurs after a while of playing mindlessly. It reminds Tim of the joys they used to share on MAD Lions, playing soloQ late into the night and early morning, not needing anyone else but them, when Tim could be silent the way he sometimes needs to be and Oskar wouldn’t mind at all.

As his answer to Oskar, Tim queues up again.

Oskar watches him with patient, sleepy blue eyes. After a few more games, after Tim’s frustration with himself and the world mounts until his face is contorted, Oskar stops him. The power button of his computer clicks. Oskar pins it down. Tim doesn’t bother to lift a hand to stop Oskar, at least not when it’s this late at night. He’s not tired. He doesn’t get tired any more. The tiredness gets soaked up by the emptiness until there is only nothing left. It’s almost like he can’t feel. He simply sits there and watches as Oskar holds down the power button until his computer is as dead as the emotional centre in his brain.

Oskar takes him home, afterwards, with a hand resting between his shoulder blades; they walk through the night for a few minutes, just long enough for the streetlights to turn into an overhead blur, and then they go inside the Fnatic house. It’s a big house, especially when Hyli is fast asleep and Martin and Gabriel are at their own flats. Oskar tucks him into bed, sometimes, or if Tim doesn’t want to sleep alone in the overwhelming silence, Oskar wraps him up in a blanket in his own bed and they share space and heat for a little while. Tonight, Tim follows Oskar to his room after brushing his teeth and changing into pyjamas - his favourite, most oversized hoodie and soft flannel pants that are just a bit too long for him. Oskar stands at his closet, putting away a few clothes before he goes to bed.

Lightly, Tim tugs at Oskar’s sleeve, and Oskar turns to look at him with a surprised expression that quickly melts into fondness. “Hey,” he whispers in the night, “you can lay down, I’ll be there in a bit.” He gestures with a nod of his head to his own bed, and Tim follows instructions with the same blankness he’s had all day.

The blankets aren’t yet warm. Oskar must not have laid down, yet, and Tim has the urge to roll himself up in blankets to combat the slight chilliness of the house at night, but he would rather let Oskar do that for him. Instead of doing anything just yet, Tim cuddles one of Oskar’s many plushies to his chest. It stares back up at him as he stares back, both unblinking, but it’s cute and round, and so Tim holds it gently in his hands.

His eyes must have slipped shut. The next thing he knows is Oskar’s hand gently tousling his messy hair, combing through it and neatening it up a bit, though it will get ruined by tomorrow with Tim’s bedhead. “Here, let me roll you up,” Oskar murmurs, setting the plushie aside with gentle hands. Tim lets himself be wrapped in blanket upon blanket, forming a thick and comfortable cosiness around himself that feels better than anything else. It’s perfect, unlike him. Oskar always manages to roll Tim into the best blanket bundles, which are just right for squirming up to Oskar in the middle of the night and getting hugs.

Not as good for giving hugs to Oskar, though. Weakly, Tim punches his hands into the fabric wrapped around him.

“Oops- sorry, let me get that for you,” Oskar chuckles, loosening the blanket bundle around Tim’s upper torso just enough for Tim to slip his hands out.

He rests his fingers lightly along Oskar’s shoulder, and Oskar pats his hand.

“Yes?” he asks so sweetly, with a soft later-than-midnight smile and clear blue eyes the colour of night seas in the shadows of their shared room.

Tim slowly trails his fingers down Oskar’s arm until they’re shoulder to shoulder, arm pressed against arm, his cheek resting on Oskar’s collarbones and Oskar’s breath rhythmically whooshing through Tim’s hair.

He hugs Oskar’s arm and scoots closer, and Oskar pats his back with his free hand.

“I’ve got you,” Oskar croons. “We’ll get through this.”

In Oskar’s embrace, Tim manages to believe it. He closes his eyes, at peace with this moment if nothing else in the world, at peace with the presence that fills his inner silence with soft breaths and the rhythm of a heartbeat.

And bit by bit, the emptiness fills with warmth.


End file.
